


sink or swim

by littlebeast



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebeast/pseuds/littlebeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of 4x11, Ian and Mickey head back to the Gallagher house. A necessary conversation happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sink or swim

The walk home from the Alibi is a long one, considering both the patches of snow lingering on the sidewalks and the fact that more than once Mickey had to double over and either cough up or vomit a small amount of blood. The burn in his throat suggested that perhaps some of the whiskey was coming up as well, but at this point, differentiation between those two bodily functions is difficult if not impossible for Mickey.

Ian, on the other hand, finishes off his flask and spends most of the walk back talking about how satisfying it was to finally be able to throw a punch at Terry, the look on Terry’s face when two of Chicago’s finest slapped the cuffs on him, and how sweet it felt to see Terry hauled away in a cop car. Mickey mostly feels like he’s going to be sick whenever Ian says his name.

Mickey is relieved to find that all the lights are off when they arrive at the Gallagher house. He’s not exactly in the mood for any of Lip’s snide comments, much less to deal with any of the younger Gallaghers and their inquisitiveness. He’s sure they’ll have questions to answer in the morning, but for now all Mickey wants is to take the hottest shower that the Gallagher’s plumbing will allow and fall asleep on a mattress, not in a sleeping bag on the floor.

It becomes immediately apparent that Ian has other ideas.

“Looks like everyone’s already in bed.” Ian punctuates his point by biting down gently on the pale skin of Mickey’s neck. When Ian’s hand comes to rest on the other side of Mickey’s neck, all Mickey can think about is his father’s hands tight on his windpipe and the bruises he left behind. How they got worse before they got better, turning from purple to black while retaining to definite outline of his father’s fingers. How Mandy insisted on putting makeup on his neck before the wedding and how he let her, biting his lip so hard that he drew blood when she rubbed her palm across the front of his throat where the imprint of Terry’s thumbs were still dark and throbbing.

“We’re covered in blood.” Mickey groans. Ian’s hand moves to undo Mickey’s top button and Mickey swats him away, holding Ian’s wrist between his thumb and his forefinger if only to keep Ian’s wandering hands still.

“Yeah, kind of hot.”

Ian’s erection is hard and insistent against Mickey’s stomach.

“Not when some of it belongs to my dad.”

Mickey pushes Ian up the stairs, ignoring Ian’s protests about how this is the perfect opportunity to have sex in the kitchen and how hot it was for him to watch Mickey wail on Terry. Mickey’s too exhausted to even begin to explain how it felt to punch his father, the cold rush of pure adrenaline that flooded his veins when Terry charged toward him and the dread that his confession would all be for nothing since in that moment Mickey was sure that he was about to die.

Upstairs, Mickey grunts, nodding in the direction of the bathroom, to indicate that he’s going to take a shower. Ian makes a disappointed face that Mickey doesn’t have the energy to deal with, but he’ll handle Ian when neither of them have dried blood flaking off of their jaws.

Once the door is firmly closed, the bathroom is a blessedly silent void but for the distant sound of a police siren moving farther and farther away. That too is drowned out when Mickey turns the water on, as hot and strong as possible.

Mickey stands under the spray, watching the water turn red where it pools at his feet. He figures that as long as his dad stays in the can, he and Ian will be okay. His brothers and his cousins and his uncles might laugh, but no one will show up at the Gallagher house with a sawed off shotgun for the time being. The thought should be comforting, but it doesn’t soothe the uneasiness in Mickey’s belly.

Given the chance, he’d do it all again. The crushing weight of Terry sitting on his diaphragm was considerably easier to deal with, even with the possibility of his impending death looming over him, than the constricted, empty feeling in his chest as he watched Ian walk towards that door. And yet. What did Ian expect him to do, knowing as much as he did about the Milkovich home life and the position he was putting Mickey in? It’s a reiteration of the question that had been nagging at the back of Mickey’s mind since he’d stood in the center of the Alibi waiting for his father to come at him swinging. _What more could Ian want from him?_

His knuckles are raw where he’s scrubbed the dried blood away, and the little cuts all over his hands are starting to weep fresh again. The blood on his face drips down his chin, a droplet lands in his eye. His or Terry’s, he doesn’t know.

Mickey startles when the shower curtain jerks back, revealing Ian, naked with his face still smeared in blood and grinning like a madman. The effect is probably not what he’d intended.

“Jesus fucking Christ, warn a guy!”

“Thought you might be jerking off.” Ian says, stepping in behind Mickey. “Wanted to see if you needed any help.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Mickey says, turning back into the spray and praying to whatever higher power was out there that Ian would take a hint for once. “Feeling like I got run over by a semi isn’t exactly getting my engines revving.”

“That so?” Ian reaches around Mickey’s waist, groping for his dick, and Mickey turns, grabbing Ian’s hand.

“Ian. You can’t fucking pull this shit anymore.”

“Jeez, all right. I was just trying to show you some appreciation.”

“No, not this—well, not _just_ this. That shit back at the Alibi? We’re lucky neither of us ended up dead, or sharing a cell down at county with my dad.”

“Mickey,” Ian says, “I just want you to be free—”

“What the fuck does ‘free’ mean to you? Does free mean running away whenever things don’t go how you planned and ending up squatting in a crack den? Because you didn’t look so free when I dragged your sorry ass out of a snowbank on the Northside. You’re not free if you’re dead, Ian. And these past few months, seems like you got some kind of death wish. For both of us.”

“But we’re both okay! See? There was nothing to be afraid of.”

“Ian, you have to know that’s not true.” Mickey says lowly, cupping Ian’s jaw in his hands. “Me marrying Svetlana was the only thing that stopped my dad from walking into the Kash & Grab and blowing your brains out. I know it might not look like it, but everything I did was for you. Not because I was ashamed of you, or of us, but to keep you alive. And you almost blew all of that tonight.”

“Mick.“ The blood is running off of Ian’s face in streaks, and it looks to Mickey like his chin might be wobbling. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mickey says, rubbing a thumb across Ian’s cheek where a dried patch of blood clings to his skin. “Well, it’s not, but you didn’t exactly give me much of a choice.” The dried blood cracks under Mickey’s touch, falling away in pieces. “I’d pick you every time, but please, Ian, don’t make me do it again. No more ultimatums.”

“I’m sorry.” Ian’s voice is barely audible above the sound of the water spraying down on them. Ian looks small like Mickey hasn’t seen since Ian was fifteen, with bangs and freckles and one last growth spurt still ahead of him, standing on the front porch of the Milkovich house saying ‘I have to see you’.

Mickey kisses him then, and it feels a bit like giving in but he thinks that might be part of what he was just talking about. ‘No more ultimatums’ means meeting each other halfway, compromise. Maybe this is what compromise feels like.

“Me too, okay?” Mickey says when they finally pull apart. Truth be told, Mickey’s tired of fighting, and he’s particularly tired of fighting with Ian. “For fucking Angie Zago, for trying to kill Frank, for all that shitty stuff I said to you.”

Ian’s eyes are watering freely now; his voice is tight when he speaks. “Yeah, okay.”

“Here, switch places with me and I’ll wash the blood out of your hair.”

They stand like that until the water runs cold, Mickey massaging the dried blood out of Ian’s scalp while Ian makes small, stifled weeping noises. When they step out of the shower it’s late, though Mickey can’t say how long it’s been; Ian’s eyes are red and swollen as Mickey towels him off.

“It’ll be okay.” Mickey says when they slip into bed, Ian pressed up against the wall and Mickey occupying the remaining space on the twin mattress. He grabs one of the blankets tangled at the foot of the bed and drags it over them, tucking it around Ian’s shoulders.

“What will?”

Mickey shrugs. “Us. Other things, too.”

Ian doesn’t look as though he particularly believes Mickey, but he smiles weakly and squeezes Mickey’s hand nonetheless.


End file.
